


Reminiscence and Absolution

by Ekko_The_Extraordinaire



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, tags will be added as this work grows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekko_The_Extraordinaire/pseuds/Ekko_The_Extraordinaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being sentenced for attempted murder, Mickey replayed his best and worst moments in his mind to get him through the dreadful fifteen years ahead of him to understand how to be a different man. He recalled a special moment with someone to be extraordinarily perfect. Don’t get Mickey wrong, he had fucked Ian lots of times, he’d fucked Angie lots of times, hell, he’d fucked several people lots of times, but somehow a kiss meant more than all of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

> For his right as an American, the author only takes credit for the original characters of this fic as his own, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or both, are purely coincidental, except, of course, for the very much alive characters of the fandom this fic is based upon. All events described herein actually happened--in the author's mind--, and though the author took the liberty in making his stories come true, do not copy, edit, nor paste his work, because that's kind of illegal. But just kind of. Still don't do it.

 R E M I N I S C E N C E   and  A B S O L U T I O N

* * *

  ** _rewind. play._**

* * *

Mickey would sometimes replay his first public kiss with Ian in his mind, kind of like his favorite VHS tape, the one with his mom holding him in her arms when he was three. It wasn’t his first kiss with Ian, but it’s the most important one.

Beautiful moments of time were able to play endlessly in his mind just the way he remembers them. He could do this with any memory. It was like a gift. He remembered things others didn’t, which was weird because that ability didn’t exactly go with his reputation as Mister Southside Bad Ass. Most people would think of Mickey to just blow off something that wasn’t a big deal, but because of that gift, Mickey was able to keep grudges towards people and remember exactly why he was mad. Everything was important, and everything was a big deal.

He recalled a special moment with someone to be extraordinarily perfect. Don’t get Mickey wrong, he had fucked Ian lots of times, he’d fucked Angie lots of times, hell, he’d fucked several people lots of times, but somehow a kiss meant more than all that.

All the special moments he had with Ian were like profound pieces of his gay puzzle. Mickey wouldn’t exactly be who he was if it weren’t for that Army Runaway Carrot Top.

Ian was the first person he kissed. Ever. Except the time he kissed his sister, Mandy, when they were around ten, but that didn’t count. ‘Just for practice, Mick. We won’t tell Dad.’ Mandy started to like boys much sooner than him, but after what she’d been through with their father, it was a wonder how she could like anyone with a penis.

Technically Ian was Mandy’s friend first, and that always bothered him. And they “dated” for a while, too, and that bothered him more. But it wasn’t until Mickey stepped up to be a big brother hero against Ian that he truly realized what he wanted and what he may have been missing out on. He’d never been so intimate with anyone. It was a mystery to Mickey how they could connect so seamlessly. Sure there were ups and downs in their relationship—as with any—but he always felt like they were _meant_ to be together. Maybe that’s what the gay agenda was—he always heard his father talking shit about the gay agenda. Whatever the fuck that was, he was probably doing it by loving and kissing Ian Gallagher.

They were to act as movers in a white van ready to take back what truly belonged to that Geriatric Viagroid, Ned. Mickey fucking hated Ned. Old bastard could get more of Ian’s dick than he could for a while, and it wasn’t fair to him. Even Ned had kissed him first, and that bothered him the most.

* * *

_**rewind. play.** _

* * *

 “You know that guy you beat the shit out off at the club? Wants me to sneak into his mansion and take all of his crap.”

“Really. Hi-larious.” Mickey wasn’t amused. Fuck Ned.

Ian said, “Can’t get them himself. Divorce. Says I can take whatever I want. He’s loaded,” and it all sounded good to Mickey. “You want in?”

“Can I bring my cousins?”

“Yeah.”

“He said, ‘Take whatever’, but he definitely wants his Armani suits, his Lucian Freud painting, and some expensive ass bottle of wine—1990 Chateau Latour, Pauillac. Sounds fancy.” Mickey liked fancy. Or maybe he just liked how the French words rolled out of Ian’s mouth.

“What do you even see in that guy, anyways?”

Ian said, “He buys me stuff and orders room service,” then he looked up at Mickey. He inhaled a cigarette as he rolled his eyes, then nearly choked when Ian continued. “Isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

That was it, the reason. The most profound moment of their relationship started there. He knew the moment would only last about a second or two, but Mickey knew it had to happen. There was no more telling Ian no after they finished fucking, no more threatening him that he might lose his tongue if he tried to kiss him. It was just time. So, before going inside the mansion to steal Ned’s stuff, he hoped back into the van and planted one on his man’s face. Ian’s lips tasted of Marlboro and the rest became history. Even the part with him getting his ass shot at by the rich bitch with a shotgun. She couldn’t aim, but hit him perfectly in his left ass cheek.

“You got shot Mickey!”

“I fucking know I got shot!”

* * *

  ** _fast forward. play._**

* * *

It was as clear as day, all his memories stored in his brain to be sorted through and watched whenever he wanted. These memories were what was going to keep him alive inside the hell of white walls and metal bars. He was sentenced to fifteen years, what the fuck else was he expected to do?

“Mickey, you got visitors.”

He guessed it was Svetlana and Yev, you know, his baby mama and child, his wife and Satan’s spawn. He could never look at either of them without remembering why they were in his life in the first place. It was all because of Terry Milkovich. That man deserved a big thank you letter for being the best father ever. He deserved an award for thinking about hiring Svetlana to rape him. Yeah, why wouldn’t Mickey appreciate being violated while his boyfriend gets to watch? Why wouldn’t he have thought to pray the gay away by fucking a Russian hooker? No offense to Svetlana. She’d truly changed in his mind, but her past was still there, and she lost her innocence when her father sold her. But, who else did he know that got to be married to a Russian lesbian? Was kind of cool. Well, in a sadistic way.

Point is, history cannot be erased, only made. Mickey was definitely making history being behind bars for the zillionth time.

He was on the top bunk when he said half-jokingly, “Do I have to?” An officer looked at him through the bars of the cell. He was black and infinitely taller than Mick.

“No, you don’t have to see your visitors.”

“Oh, ok, well—“

“Would you like for me to send your visitors home?”

“No! No, I don’t mind,” and he didn’t, so he hoped off the bed and waited to be cuffed and walked to the appropriate room. To see fresh faces would do him some good, because he’d been there too long already. Still had fourteen years and some months to go.

Things were entirely different for Mickey this time around. It wasn’t juvie, it was prison. The more he thought about it, the more it got under his skin. He was looking at fifteen years of terrible cafeteria food funded by the state, which would be cheap as fuck. Fifteen years in a cell that felt smaller than his home bathroom. And of course, some of this time would be spent sharing a jail cell with a thirty-six year old man named Pal who lived on the bottom bunk. _Who in the fuck’s name is Pal?_ No, it wasn’t a nickname.

Pal was supposedly molested as a child which supposedly fucked him up and supposedly sent him to jail at the age of thirty-six. Mickey didn’t believe a goddamned thing Pal said. Pal was stupid. But Pal was thirty-six, which ironically was the same fucking age Mickey was to be able to see the light of day again, and not from behind barb wire fencing, either.

The cuffs fell from his wrists one at a time after the key clicked inside and then the gate opened to the visitor quarters. Big-buff was hiding behind the door like Mickey was gonna’ sic him or something. Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed to the sight of familiar faces talking to their families over the phone. That’s what he was going to look like, a loser in orange holding the type of phones no one uses anymore—unless you’re in prison, of course.

Before picking up the phone, he toyed his fingers at the glass to get the attention of a young Yevgeny Milkovich. He’d gotten so big. He could only imagine him at the age of sixteen, probably with a girlfriend—or boyfriend—speaking fucking Russian because he wouldn’t be there to teach him English. Lord knows they don’t teach English in school these days, anyways.

Svetlana leans towards the glass, her boobs plump, probably full of breast milk, ready to fall out of her red shirt which is under a coat trimmed in fur. Yev had one to match.

“Say hi to Yevgeny like you care.”

Mickey did as he was told, Svetlana not actually giving the phone to her child. “Sup, little man, getting’ big.”

She hung up the phone for a few seconds while she fixed the child’s jacket and handed him off to—fucking Ian Gallagher. Mickey couldn’t believe he was here. Again. Thought maybe they would truly drift apart after he got sentenced. ‘Second degree / attempted murder’ aren’t exactly love song lyrics.

She picked up the phone again, smiling. “You never know when they’re watching.” Her R’s were rolling of her tongue accordingly.

Mickey looked to his left, deciding who _they_ might be. “Oh, that fat fuck, couldn’t give a shit. Believe me. All he's thinking about is whether he’ll get extra helpings of kielbasa or pierogis at his mom's tonight...”

He thought he was hilarious and hadn’t lost his humor, but Svetlana was preoccupied. “I got another job for you.”

Seems that he was preoccupied, too. His eyes were suddenly on Ian and Yev. They were always cute together. Svetlana kept talking as he pondered the thought of sharing a jail cell with Ian, how the boys would do the whole prison thing together. God, he missed him. Something else crossed his mind, too, maybe he would be the one holding Yev and Ian would be where he was or something. Or maybe no one would be in jail and they were still together kissing each other good night like they used to, but reality kicked in and—

“Joe Francetti, C block, 602. They pay $2,500, but you must stab him in the eye.”

Mickey didn’t put too much thought into what she said and envisioned there would be a lot more cleaning up to do than the last job required. _Clean up at C block, 602!_

“Dead or blind?” He asked.

“Doesn't matter. Either way.”

“Well, what's my cut?” Mickey could use some cash in his commissary.

“Same as last time. Fifty/fifty.”

Mickey lost interest in the job. “He just gonna’ sit back there the whole time?”

They both looked at the boys in sync, Mickey wondering ‘what the fuck, Ian’. His lip twitched when his eyes met Ian’s. All he wanted was a phone call to his ex, wasn’t too much to ask. Was it?

“Lots more jobs coming. We make lots of money with you in here.”

“Fine. Look, why don’t you take the milk-sucker and scram, wanna’ talk to Ian.”

She knocked on the glass like he wasn’t listening. He was listening, goddamit. “Hey, in the eye, yes? In the eye.” She pointed at her own eyes, just in case Mickey didn’t know what her Russian-ness was saying.

“In the fucking eye, I got it!”

She hung up the phone, sincerely touched the glass ready to make another paycheck, and then walked to get Yev from Ian’s hands. Ian picked up the phone, and already looked irritated with Mickey’s understanding.

“Thanks for coming back.”

“Yeah, Svetlana paid me, so…”

* * *

_**pause.** _

* * *

Mickey thought that was just like her to come there and demand he ‘bring home the bacon’ even if he was in prison. It was just like Svetlana Milkovich to offer to pay Ian to come see him just so she could get what she wanted. It was just like her to do a lot of things, but damn she could get low sometimes. Mickey wondered how much it actually took to get Ian there, you know, considering that would be how much he was worth to Ian now.

* * *

_**play.** _

* * *

Mickey tried a second time to get more out of Ian. “You look good.” The tone in his voice, the way he looked at him, not that he would know because Ian’s eyes were taking to the floor more than him. It all seemed awkward, yet familiar. “Got a new tattoo.” Mickey attempted to break the uncooperative silence of Ian. “Did it myself, hurt like a son of a bitch.”

He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his orange suit, then pulled down his white tank top. Mickey revealed his new invention. Like a birthmark, Mickey’s tattoo looked to be random and without thought. But actually, he put it over his heart for a reason. Over Mickey’s heart was a jumble of words that looked to be 'Ian Gallagher', and to his knowledge it said 'Ian Gallagher', but on his chest written in not easily removed ink was: Ian Galeger.

“Jeez.”

Mickey wanted Ian to say something. Anything. Didn’t he like it? It was his fucking name permanently inked into his body, he’d better fucking like it.

“Looks fucking infected.”

“Kind of hard to round up a clean needle in here.” It was the truth. He asked several people to sneak one in, but it turned out Pal had one stashed away between the metal bars of their bedframe along with several small magazine cut-outs of Jennifer Aniston and J-Lo.

“Gallagher is spelled with two L’s.” There was no way Mickey did it wrong, he knew how to spell his own boyfriend's name. Well, ex boyfriend’s name, whatever.

“No, it’s fucking not!” He was definitely in denial.

Ian started to giggle, smiling more than Mickey had seen in a while. Near the end of their relationship, Ian was either crying about his disease or complaining about having to take his meds. Or he wouldn't do anything. Ian became a zombie, just stuck in a daze that was so unlike the Ian that Mickey used to know. So now, it was nice to see Ian do something, show some sign up who he used to be before all the shit happened. It was nice to see Ian Gallagher in front of him, whether or not he was getting laughed at. The smile faded from Ian’s face quickly.

“Fuck,” Mickey was disappointed. But it didn’t matter ‘cause Ian was there. He wanted to say something before he left. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere, they were just making circles mostly. What would they talk about, it’s not like they have much to catch up. _By the way, Ian, I took a shit next to a guy today_ , because there aren’t stalls in this particular prison. He, of course, blamed the state.

“Been thinkin’ about you.” Mickey was glad to get it off his chest. He was being truthful and couldn’t help but want Ian to just say those words back. 

Ian looked up at him through the glass. For assurance of any kind, Mickey asked, “Ever think of me?”

Nothing.

“Gonna wait for me?”

Ian looked disgusted, almost like Mickey really did say ‘By the way, Ian, I took a shit next to a guy today.’

“You’re in here for fifteen years.”

Fuck, he hadn’t heard it from anyone else except the judge that sentenced him after Sammi turned him in on account for her 'traumatic time in a box crate'. It had never seemed like such a big number until Ian said it.

“Yeah, but I’ll be out in 8 with overcrowding, so…” He was convinced to change that dreadful number.

“You tried to kill my sister.”

“Half-sister, one. Two, like you give a shit. She had it coming, going fuckin—”

The sound of the buzzer rang loudly, interrupting the phone call. It felt like a timer had started for fifteen years. Mickey didn't know how he was supposed to do it. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he thought maybe the judge would shorten his sentence or something. It wasn’t that bad what he did. Sammi is a bitch and he was helping out Ian’s family. It was for him. He would do anything for Ian Gallagher.

_1, 2, 3._

It was time for his wife and son to leave, was time for his husband to leave. Hell, he had to leave, but at least they could go out and snag a candy bar or something, he was stuck. He had never felt so stuck. Other visits weren’t like this, why was this one any different? This time he felt like they weren’t coming back. They wouldn’t leave him there, would they? He had so many questions, so little time. 

_4, 5, 6._

Mickey would regret it if he didn’t try. He wouldn’t let them leave without an answer. Ian had to answer his question. He had to.  _He has to._ So he asked again, “Will you, you know, wait?”

Ian said nothing. Everyone on Mickey’s side had left and he was left waiting, waiting for an answer. He couldn’t handle it, his blood was boiling inside, all for Ian’s words. He had to hear his voice one last time. God, it felt like he was dying inside.

_7, 8, 9._

“Fuckin’ lie if you have to, man, eight years is a long time.”

Ian amused him. Enough.

_10, 11, 12._

“Yeah. Yeah, Mick, I’ll wait.”

But it still hurt.

 _13, 14, 15,_ because fifteen years sounded like eternity.

* * *

_**pause.** _

* * *

 


	2. Hi, I'm Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey meets his cellmate, and the prison things is slowly seeming like the worst decision the courts could have made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's a short chapter.

R E M I N I S C E N C E   and  A B S O L U T I O N

* * *

  ** _rewind. play._**

* * *

 A monster yelled from above him, his breath too fast and loud to hear what it was saying. “You fucker! Get back here, we aren’t done. **You owe me.** ”

At the monster’s command, a stream of purple fog rose from the ground and started to surround him, the ghastly poison seeping into his skin. It started to burn and itch underneath as it soared through his veins. As Mickey inched away from the fog in discomfort, the pain became more and more tolerable, but his fear worsened, afraid that the monster wouldn’t be far behind. He had to run to save himself.

Mickey realized he was in a factory, abandoned of workers and supplies, him in a room full of empty shelves. The monster started to hum a lullaby that seemed way too familiar, but it wasn’t anywhere to be seen on ground level. Instead, it was on top of the shelves, Mickey’s eyes full of fear. Mickey started to wander aimlessly, making his way to any exit in the building. But, of course, there’s was no escape, because he was dreaming…

“I don’t have it!” Mickey didn’t know what ‘it’ was, but he knew he didn’t owe the humming monster anything. It was ruining the lullaby, it was ruining his sense of direction. He had nowhere else to run. He was stuck in an infinite warehouse of empty shelves with a purple fog monster. He knew he was dreaming, but how?

Mickey had had this particular dream quite often, a re-occurring nightmare, if you will. He remembers everything, but in this dream, he remembers too much. He knew what was about to happen.

Still running, he started to yell more, his breath taking away every pronunciation he had. Maybe the monster didn’t understand him. But then, everything that escaped his mouth was gibberish, English becoming just another foreign language. He was losing his voice, his senses, his ability to keeping running, hell, he was losing himself in the fog alone. He had to stop and catch his breath, catch himself from falling, but his entirety began to seep into the floor, and in a matter of minutes he would disappear.

He was drowning, no—sinking. The floor turned to quicksand, his feet now planted into the ground like crop seeds. Flashes of images scattered in his brain, ones of trees and grass, some of cornstalk and rice farms, then a scarecrow like he’d never seen waved at him and smiled. It was all too much. In seconds he would be another body lying lifeless six feet under with nothing but air separating him from the dirt. His body wasn’t tangible anymore. He felt like goo oozing through the warehouse’s uneven floorboards. He was melting and sinking into nothing until—

Instantly, Mickey became corporeal again. He looked up, seeing there was sand falling on top of him coming from the hole he’d just come through. He started to run again, but ran into a glass wall. He was in a transparent box in the middle of a living room fitted with a couch and chairs and a tv set and nice curtains to block out the sun. Wait, he’d never seen this room before. He was supposed to know what happened next. He had no further expectation, now. This was all new. So much for _re-occurring_ nightmares.

 The monster’s humming faded to moaning. Not of pain, but of pleasure. No one seemed to be in danger—except himself, but the moaning was caused by arousal. Through the glass Mickey saw the monster appear on the couch, it’s eyes closed and it’s back arched. The monster was on the receiving end of the most detailed oral sex scene Mickey had ever dreamt, (that didn’t include his favorite porn stars, of course.) The monster’s mouth opened with joy, its tongue protruding out disgustingly. Mickey looked down to see who is doing this _favor_ for him only to find: It was himself. It was his mouth giving the monster exactly what it wanted. ‘You owe me’, he thought, but never thought this was what the monster meant. To his surprise and with no warning, the monster started to fade into a mirrored image of himself. As the saying goes, he was literally fucking himself and he couldn’t help but begin to scream at the irony. His scream caused the glass mirror to shatter into thousands of pieces. He could see his tiny reflection in every single piece of glass that lay on the ground. Thousands of himself were staring at him.

Mickey then woke up, his body lying in a swimming pool of sweat. His dream was over, but his fear had just begun.

* * *

  ** _pause._**

* * *

 Mickey would sometimes replay his first public kiss with Ian in his mind, kind of like his favorite VHS tape, the one with his mom holding him in her arms when he was three.

~~Beautiful~~ moments of time were able to play endlessly in his mind ~~just~~ the way he remembers them. He could do this with any memory. ~~It was like a gift.~~

~~Everything was important, and~~ everything was a big deal.

* * *

  ** _rewind. play._**

* * *

 Prison beds were not meant to be comfortable. The guard that checked Mickey in made sure he knew that, made sure Mickey wasn’t expecting too much enjoyment. This particular prison guard knew the rodeo like the back of his bald head—it’s always been a part of him, but it’s always changing and growing hairs and shit. It made sense to Mickey.

“Bend down, cough.”

Mickey was vulnerable, naked, embarrassed, and ashamed. He didn’t know how to feel really. But he was especially cold. That was another thing he could thank his father for, they always had heat, even if he or Mandy were helping pay for it with their own cash.

The guard was doing his job: a body cavity search. He was making sure Mickey wasn’t smuggling contraband, and even though Mickey knew he could probably fit whatever he wanted up his own ass, he wasn’t stupid. He knew the rodeo, too, probably better than the guard. He’d seen plenty of cop shows on cable, you see. The guard took extra-long to check his ass out, probably noticed his scar, or maybe he was interested. (Mickey would keep that in mind.) There was no pain compared to being shot in the ass. Prison should be fine. A breeze. At least, he thought so.

“Clean, turn around.” The guard got personal with his dick, his eyes glistening from the light shining from his flashlight. He was probably checking for things in his dick, too. People would do crazy shit to get the upper hand in prison. One time Mickey heard that a guy snuck in a cigarette, had to piss it out to use it. No worries, hopefully it was wrapped in plastic. He never knew nicotine could be that addicting, or maybe it was worth a lot of money behind bars. And being in prison, he could say goodbye to the joys of tobacco. Mickey was glad he was cold, it’d felt like forever since _anyone_ touched his dick, besides him that is.

He just been handed his orange jumper, a little bigger than his clothes at home. It was hard to find clothes that fit anyways, but this prison suit swallowed him, leaving evidence of his short stature. It warmed him a little, but he couldn’t wait to get underneath a blanket, something. His skin felt pale, if that were even possible.

The guard led him down a long corridor, him seeing several people locked up. He would be one of them. They all watched as he passed each cell, like he was prey ready to be eaten as soon as they got out. ‘Avoid prison butt fucking, it’s dangerous and you’ll get aids, dude.’ He missed his brother no matter how fucking stupid and homophobic he was. But he couldn’t help but wonder if his brother was right.

The guard took off Mickey’s cuffs and led him into the bars and said, “Alright, Mickey, you’ll be here until you’re assigned a dorm. Might be tomorrow, might be weeks. Lunch sessions start ‘round noon. Visitation is from 3-6 and if you’re lucky, bed time won’t be until 8.” He left, leaving Mickey with nothing but the clothes literally on his back. Well, that and a cellmate.

“Sup, I’m Stupid.”

Never had Mickey met someone who introduced themselves to him, unless they were about to make a drug deal, but even then, it was just cash for substance, then he would walk away. There was never time or a need to know anyone’s name. Would have just become unnecessary leverage. It was just the way to do things, names weren’t important when he had cash instead.

“What?” Mickey was confused. What the literal fuck did this guy just say?

“I’m Stupid. It’s—it’s a nickname.”

“Nice to meet you…Stupid.” Mickey wanted it to be more insulting, but the guy’s name was ‘Stupid’—in every sense of the word, so insulting him would probably do internal damage this guy didn’t really need. Prison was enough. He didn’t want to be a dick to his new roommate, not of the first day at least. He met his hand with the one offered to him and they firmly shook.

“Supposedly I’m here ‘cause I did somethin’ wrong, don’t know what, but they’ll tell me sometime or another. Ain’t got family ‘cept my dog Sally, call her Sal for short. Supposedly, that’s a name everybody names their cat, but I don’t mind cause Sal’s a good name, you know? Ain’t never had a cat, but I love my dog Sal. Man one time, I was using the bathroom and that crazy bitch jumped in my lap while I was taking a shit. Supposedly, dogs do weird shit sometimes, man they eat their own shit. Supposedly…”

Mickey had never heard someone talk that way, fast in speech, slow in the brain, yet oddly southern-drunk in practice. ‘Course he would get stuck with Stupid. **Supposedly** Stupid only had one real word in his vocabulary.

“Dude, shut the fuck up. Stop busting my balls, I just got here. Let me breathe, ok?” He didn’t really need air, he needed warmth. He went to the uncomfortable bed’s bottom bunk and landed in a cocoon of itchy blankets and sheets. It smelled like piss. He didn’t ask.

“That’s my bed, bro. Get the fuck out.” Stupid was very protective of his own space. Mickey could respect that. He moved, but not after giving him the finger and Stupid just smiled, his yellow stained teeth showing affection towards Mickey. Brotherly love was already in the air and Mickey could hardly wait.

Not.

“So what’d the guard mean bedtime won’t be until 8, if I’m lucky?”

Stupid responds rather quickly, like his answer had already been thought out. “Oh, man, supposedly bedtime can go from anywhere between 3-10, some people will skip their lunch and dinner just to get more sleep, but the later you go to sleep, the worse you are in the morning. They wake us up supposedly real early when they want to, to go do chores and shit. So 8’s a good time, not too late, not too early.”

Chores? Mickey didn’t like that word. He barely did chores at home. He never thought a day would come where he would be forced to do fucking chores. That was a mom thing to do, force chores and shit on you, but he never had that. And it’s not like his dad would say anything, that’s why the house was a mess. He hoped that Svetlana would teach Yev those kinds of things while he was in prison. Maybe Yev would have it a lot better without a dad.

“So, uh, what kind of chores?” So maybe Mickey was nervous, he had to have responsibilities that he wasn’t so familiar with. Even in prison…

“Mostly just cleaning the prison, but if you’re good at it, they’ll start paying you in your commissary. Then you supposedly could buy a tooth brush.”

“Don’t you get one of those anyways?”

“Ha, you’re funny, Mikey.”

“My name is Mickey, not Mikey. How did you even—?”

“I heard the guard, and I thought he said Mikey, sorry. Supposedly that guard guy killed someone last year. Heard if from some of the guys in our sector. Wait, does this mean I can call you like Mick or something? Hey! You’re names like Mickey Moose, er, Mouse.”

Mickey couldn’t wait to go to sleep.

“Sure, you can call me whatever the fuck you want. What do you mean sector?”

“You know, like sector. Supposedly we are the cleaning sector, other parts of the prison get to be in the library or in the laundry rooms and if you’re really good you get to cook the food. But you start off here. Tomorrow I get to clean the floors, supposedly that’s better than the toilets in stuff. You know, even prison folks gotta’ shit too.”

_Shit._ Mickey didn’t think about it. The last time he took a shit, least it was at home in the comfort of his house, but now, he’ll have to do it in a stall. It wasn’t a problem, he just didn’t prefer it. Yeah, maybe he hated public stalls, ‘s not a crime. Who wants to hear other people’s turds drop into the water? Who wants to hear that big, tattooed fat-ass straining to get out the remains of prison food that’s been tearing his stomach up? Mickey wasn’t about that life. Something needed to change, but what could he do?

* * *

**_pause._ **

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp! It's been a hawt second since I've posted, and I DO apologize. What can I say, I've been busy?!

**Author's Note:**

> So, you got this far, why not keep reading? And you can do that as soon as I write more, because...yeah. Please leave a comment, I beg of you. Talk to me, I'm a real person. If you enjoyed, press the grey heart and make it red! 
> 
> Kudos, I thoroughly enjoy. And spelled backwards kind of looks like Sudoku. you're welcome.


End file.
